Jessica released Brandon’s arm and took two steps toward Ryan, her expression shifting into something that looked like genuine concern—if you didn’t know better.
“Ryan,” she said softly, her voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby delivery people to hear.
“Even though we broke up, I’m really worried about you.
This…
this isn’t healthy.” She gestured at the fortress walls, the convoy of trucks, the chaos of activity.
“When things get difficult, a real man doesn’t hide from his problems.
He faces them.
He works to fix his company, to rebuild what his parents created.
But you?
You’re just…
giving up.
Building walls, ordering food like you’re preparing for some kind of siege, locking yourself away from reality.” Jessica sighed dramatically, shaking her head with exaggerated pity.
“I’m so glad I didn’t stay with you.
Can you imagine?
Being trapped in this ridiculous fortress, eating takeout every day, just…
waiting to die while the world moves on without us?” She turned back to Brandon, her expression instantly transforming from concerned to adoring as she reclaimed his arm.
“Brandon is so different,” she said, looking up at him with doe eyes.
“He’s already helping his father manage their billion-dollar shipping empire.
That’s what a real man looks like.” It was a masterful performance—hitting all the right notes to make Ryan look pathetic while making herself seem mature and Brandon seem superior.
Brandon ate it up.
He reached down and pinched Jessica’s cheek affectionately, then turned to look at Ryan with barely concealed contempt.
“So this is your ex?” Brandon said, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Interesting choice, babe.
Your taste has definitely improved.” He gestured broadly at the delivery vehicles and workers.
“Also, what the hell is going on here?
You’re turning this entire neighborhood into some kind of…
food court?
Do you have any idea how much you’re lowering property values?
The rest of us live here too, you know.” Ryan smiled.
He looked at the three people standing in front of him—performing their little show like actors in a play—and felt nothing but cold amusement.
Escaping reality?
Giving up?
He was making the most comprehensive preparations for a global catastrophe that would kill ninety-nine percent of humanity in the next 36 hours.
And these idiots living in their bubble of ignorance had no idea what was coming.
Ryan’s gaze swept over Jessica and Brandon standing together, then landed on Ashley hovering beside them like an eager puppy waiting for approval.
“You three really do make the perfect set,” Ryan said calmly.
“A bitch, a dog, and…” he glanced at Ashley, “…a pug yapping for attention.” The words landed like a slap.
The air around them seemed to freeze.
Every delivery person within earshot stopped what they were doing, eyes darting between Ryan and the three visitors with barely concealed interest.
“What the FUCK did you just say?!” Brandon exploded.
His face went from pale to red in about two seconds.
The veins in his neck bulged.
“Do you have ANY idea who I am?!
I’m Brandon Pierce!
My family’s shipping company does over a billion in annual revenue!
People in this city show me respect!” He jabbed a finger at Ryan.
“And you—some nobody who inherited a tech company and drove it into the ground—you DARE to insult me?!” “Ryan!
How could you!” Jessica gasped, hand flying to her chest like she’d been mortally wounded.
“I can’t believe I ever dated someone so…
so vicious!
Someone who attacks people with horrible language just because he’s jealous!” She pointed at Ryan, her voice shaking with theatrical outrage.
“You’re pathetic!
A complete waste of space!” “Exactly!” Ashley chimed in, her shrill voice cutting through the tension.
“she found someone amazing and you can’t handle it!
You’re having a breakdown!
You’re mentally unstable!” The three of them piled on, talking over each other, painting Ryan as a jealous, broken man hiding from his failures.
Ryan watched Brandon’s face cycle through shades of red and purple, veins throbbing, designer suit straining as he worked himself into a rage.
Then Ryan raised his hands in a gesture of mock apology.
“Wait, wait.
Brandon, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Brandon’s expression shifted slightly—still furious, but now with a hint of satisfaction.
Finally, the peasant was backing down.
“I didn’t mean to call you a dog,” Ryan said, his tone perfectly sincere.
Brandon’s chest puffed up.
“Damn right you—” “I meant that you’re not even as good as a dog.” The words hung in the air for a full second.
Brandon’s brain seemed to short-circuit.
His mouth opened and closed like a fish.
His face went through several more color changes—red, purple, then an unhealthy mottled combination.
“WHAT?!” he finally managed to choke out.
Ashley gasped.
“Did he just—” “Oh wait, no, that’s not right either,” Ryan interrupted, as if he’d just realized something.
“My apologies.
How could I compare a dog to you?
That’s incredibly unfair…
to the dog.” Brandon’s eyes bulged.
“You—you—” “Babe, he’s saying you’re worse than a dog!” Jessica hissed, finally catching up.
And that did it.
“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” Brandon roared.
The sound was almost animalistic.
His Versace suit stretched across his shoulders as he tensed.
His Patek Philippe—probably worth $200,000—flashed in the sunlight as he clenched his fists.
“I’m going to KILL YOU!” Brandon charged forward like an enraged bull, fist cocked back, clearly planning to punch Ryan directly in the face.
The crowd of delivery people gasped and scattered.
Jessica and Ashley both had identical smirks on their faces—they were going to love watching Ryan get beaten to a pulp.
But Ryan just stood there, hands in his pockets, wearing a faint smile.
Brandon closed the distance—three feet, two feet— WHOOOOSH A sharp whistling sound cut through the air.
CLANG!
A cast-iron frying pan—black, heavy, probably twelve inches across—materialized from somewhere in the crowd and hit Brandon square in the back of the skull with a sound like a gong.
“AAAHHH!” Brandon’s scream was high-pitched and strangled.
His forward momentum stopped instantly.
He staggered, grabbing the back of his head, his vision going spotty.
The world spun.
His knees buckled.
He dropped into a crouch, clutching his skull, breathing hard.
“WHO—” Brandon gasped, looking around wildly.
“Who threw that?!
WHO THREW THE FUCKING PAN?!” His eyes landed on a heavy-set man wearing a Plaza Hotel chef’s uniform, standing near the front of the crowd.
The chef looked utterly baffled.
He raised his hands defensively, shaking his head.
“I didn’t do nothing, man!
I was just standing here!” He even gave Brandon an apologetic, almost friendly smile.
“BULLSHIT!” Brandon screamed.
“Ryan!
This is YOUR fault!
You set this up!” He tried to stand, shaking his head to clear it, murder in his eyes.
But he’d barely gotten his feet under him when— WHOOOOSH Another projectile.
This time: a red construction brick.
It tumbled through the air in a perfect arc and hit Brandon directly in the face.
CRUNCH The sound of breaking cartilage was sickening.
Brandon’s nose collapsed.
Blood exploded from his nostrils and mouth, spraying across his expensive suit.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHH!” The scream was inhuman.
Brandon fell backward, hitting the pavement hard, both hands flying to his ruined face.
Blood poured between his fingers.
He rolled side to side, howling in agony.
His previously handsome face was now a grotesque mess—red blood, pale skin, purple bruising already forming around his eyes.
“Oh my God!” Ryan exclaimed, his voice full of shocked concern.
He rushed forward.
“Someone’s throwing things from the buildings!
This is so dangerous!
Brandon, are you okay?!” He crouched down as if to help, then “accidentally” stepped on Brandon’s wrist—the one wearing the Patek Philippe.
And ground his heel down.
Crack “AAAHHH MY HAND!
MY HAND!”
If you are interested can check it out.